Angel of Death
by Argella
Summary: Matt's fine with his monochromatic life, but an old loved and hated friend suddenly yanks him back into a crusade he never wanted to fight. Rated for language and some mature themes.
1. Black Friday

****

A/N: The material of chapters 1-3 has now all been combined into one chapter, as of August 16, 2010. New material starts in chapter 2. Sorry for any confusion.

Thank you so much to my beautiful beta reader Meiyl, who thought up some excellent wordings in a couple of places and helped clean up everything.

_Disclaimer: The story and characters of Death Note were created by Tsugumi Ohba and Takeshi Obata._

* * *

**1. Black Friday**

* * *

Yesterday was Thanksgiving Day. I'm not at all sorry I spent it in my room with the shades drawn, smoking, playing video games and completing odd hacking jobs—after all, that's how I've spent every day for the past year and a half. Thanksgiving is a time for Americans to affirm their sweet family bonds, go to overpacked parades, and stuff their faces. I've lived most of my life in Winchester, England, I've never had a family, I hate crowds, and the only food I have in my apartment is a few cans of instant soup and some moldy apples. Can you tell I think Thanksgiving is fucking boring?

My phone rings from next to my laptop on the coffee table. When I flip it open to look at the caller I.D., it only displays "Unknown Number." What a piece of crap. I spent hours tinkering with this thing when I got it, removing protections and hacking the operating system so that it would do everything I wanted it to, and now it can't even tell me the number of whoever's calling me. I obviously need to tweak it again.

I press the button to accept the call anyway. "Who is this?" I ask, then take a long drag on my cigarette.

"Matt? It's me."

I swear my heart stops beating for a second. I gasp, immediately choking on the smoke, and start coughing painfully. My cigarette falls to the floor, still smoldering, and I can barely keep the phone next to my ear. "What... the hell?" I splutter between coughs. "_Mello?_"

I haven't heard Mello's voice in almost five years. It's unmistakably his, even though it has a slightly lower, rougher timbre now. "Yeah... Did you miss me?" He gives a hoarse laugh.

When I finally manage to stop coughing, I'm completely speechless. I've spent the last four years or so believing that Mello was dead, for fuck's sake, and now he's calling me out of the blue and asking me if I _missed him?_ My lack of an answer doesn't seem to faze him, because he goes on. "I need a favor, Matt. I didn't want to get you involved, but you're the only one who can help me."

"Goddamn it, Mello!" My vocal paralysis is broken. "Help you with what? Where the fuck have you been?"

I hear a snapping noise on the other end of the line. I'd know that sound anywhere—he's eating a chocolate bar. It's probably the same brand he used to get when we were kids. "I can't explain now. I need to meet with you."

"What do you mean, meet with me? Do you know where I am?" And how the hell does he still have my number?

He exhales harshly, breath crackling over the phone. "I've been tracking you for the past eighteen months."

"_What?_" It's a good thing I dropped my cigarette, because otherwise I'd be choking on it again. "You—you—" I think I'm fuming as much as the cigarette is; I wouldn't be surprised if smoke were coming out of my ears.

"Please don't get angry, Matt." His voice sounds strained. "Will you just meet me today? I promise—I'll tell you everything."

"Your promises aren't worth shit," I snap. I think I'd rather go on believing he's dead. "Leave me alone. You're good at doing that." Bastard.

I hear another whoosh of breath. "Matt, please. I want to see you."

"Fuck you," I snarl, and hang up.

I stare at the phone in my hand for a long time, breathing heavily. Then I remember to stamp out the cigarette I dropped before it sets fire to the rug. My head is pounding, my heart is racing, and I feel like shit, but I don't light up another one. I reach toward the coffee table to grab my goggles, shaking as I tug the strap over the back of my head and lower the lenses over my eyes. The orange plastic is scratched and foggy.

_Mello's alive_. I slump over on the couch and bury my face in the crook of my arm, still clutching the phone. The goggles bite into my skin through my sleeve and pinch the bridge of my nose, but after a while I don't notice. I concentrate on breathing and not sobbing or throwing up, counting inhales and exhales until my mind goes blank.

* * *

Some time later, someone starts banging on my door. I sit up wearily, readjusting my goggles, and try to shake the pins and needles out of my hand. The time on my phone reads 12:05—I've been lying in a stupor for at least forty minutes. I'm pretty out of it, and I still feel awful, but at least I'm a little calmer now. I put the phone back on the coffee table when the banging gets more insistent. Who the fuck could it be? A neighbor?

"Keep your shirt on, I'm coming." I stumble to the door, flip the deadbolt back, and jerk the door open. A tall figure in black leather and a fur-lined hood is standing in the hallway. It sure doesn't look like one of my neighbors, and why the hell would any of them be knocking on my door, anyway?

The figure raises gloved hands to slowly lower the hood. I now see that it's a man with light, shaggy hair and a hideous scar that looks like a burn covering the left side of his face. My eyes widen behind my goggles.

"Mello?" My voice is a scared whisper. His hair is longer than I remember it, he must be at least a foot taller, and his outfit is bordering on ridiculous, but who else could it possibly be?

This can't be real. I just heard Mello's voice for the first time in ages, and now, less than an hour later, he's outside my door. In a daze, I start to reach out my hand to him, as if to make sure he's tangible, before I remember I'm extremely pissed off at him and cross my arms. "How the hell did you get up here?"

"It's not hard to sneak into an apartment building," he points out. "Can I come in?"

I glare at him for a few seconds, then turn around and stalk back toward the couch. It's my own fucking apartment and I could just tell him to get the hell out, but I know that he's stubborn enough to barge in here no matter what I say to him. Why bother?

When I hear the door close behind me, I look around at him again. "What are you doing here?"

"I told you. I need your help." His deep voice is unnerving; the scar is downright horrifying.

"What the fuck did you do to your face?" I ask softly.

His eyes narrow slightly. "I don't need reminding that I'm ugly," he mutters.

I narrow my eyes right back at him, frowning, but I can't stay angry at him, not when he's _here_, real and alive. I'll settle for being exasperated. "Just... tell me what happened."

He takes a deep breath. "Can we sit?" He looks a bit insecure, hugging his arms, but he's staring straight into my eyes. My goggles protect me somewhat from the intensity of his gaze.

Wordlessly, I walk around to the front of the couch, sit down, and gesture to the cushion to my left. He shrugs out of his coat and hangs it up on the rack by the door. When he approaches the couch, he sits in exactly the same manner he used to as a fourteen-year-old kid—bent over, with his elbows on his knees and his hands clasped together. It brings a knot to my throat.

Mello doesn't say anything for about a minute; he just stares at the coffee table. Then he abruptly says, "I joined an organized crime syndicate." He glances sideways at me. "About three and a half years after I left Wammy's. I was hiding out with a gang in L.A. until about two weeks ago."

This revelation should astonish me, but it doesn't. I mean, when Mello left the orphanage, I knew he'd be doing something incredibly dangerous to go after Kira—I just didn't know what. Mello does basically whatever the hell he wants, and he's smart and determined enough to pull it off. They don't let eighteen-year-olds into the mob for nothing. I wonder what he did before he joined them, and how he ended up in L.A, but I guess I don't really want to know the details.

"I thought Kira was supposed to be in Japan," I say, looking back at him stonily. Only the right side of his face is visible.

"Of course he's in Japan, but what the hell could I do there?" He absentmindedly fingers the rosary resting against his chest. I can't believe he still has that thing, since he seems to have gotten rid of everything else from his previous life. The red cross eerily complements the black leather. "I needed an established gang of criminals—people who had a grudge against Kira, who had resources... who didn't give a shit about following the law, you know? I mean, L worked with the police, and look where that got him." Yeah, like I needed reminding of that. Mello's fingers continue to flick over the wooden beads. "I had to get pretty high in the ranks before I could do anything to get to Kira," he adds. His calm voice is utterly incongruous with the serious shit he's talking about.

My gaze rakes over his glossy leather outfit. I still remember the plain, baggy clothing he used to wear, before L died and our lives fell apart. I wonder what he would have looked like if he had stayed at Wammy's, if he hadn't forced himself to grow up so fast. His current getup is the finishing touch on his merciless mobster persona—it's alluring and intimidating, showing off his assets while at the same time clearly stating _Don't fuck with me_.

He really isn't the kid I grew up with any more. But it doesn't matter; he's still my best friend. Actually, he's my only friend. I never really had use for friends before I met Mello, and when he was gone, I didn't care about finding someone else to follow around. How pathetic—the guy I consider to be my best friend is someone who hasn't bothered to speak to me for five years.

I calculate from the time he said he joined the mob that it must have been at about the same time I graduated from Wammy's. I guess when he had the resources of a crime syndicate, it was easy to track me from Winchester to the U.S. That doesn't excuse the fact that he was basically stalking me for a year and a half—or the fact that he's a total fucking bastard. I finally break the uncomfortable silence.

"Why didn't you tell me where you were?" I demand, keeping my voice as steady as possible. He turns his head to face me. I look into his eyes, willing myself not to let my gaze wander to his scar.

A ghost of a scowl appears on his face. "Why do you think, Matt? I wasn't about to drag you onto the streets with me. And once I got into all that mafia shit, I expected to get killed any day." He points to the scar that I'm trying so hard to ignore. "I didn't want this to happen to you. Or worse."

So, he wanted me to be safe. What kind of excuse is that? He still left without deigning to say goodbye. He had my number all this time—couldn't he have at least sent me _one_ fucking text message, just to let me know he wasn't dead?

I irritably take out my lighter and another cigarette from my pack. The view of Mello is distorted by my goggles, but I can see him wrinkling his nose out of the corner of my eye as I concentrate on lighting up. I take a drag and exhale slowly, ignoring his disapproval—I'll bet anything he's smoked more potent stuff than this before. "Keep talking. You still haven't told me what happened to your face."

He doesn't meet my eye when I look pointedly back at him. His mouth is a grim line. "I got Kira's murder weapon," he says bluntly. I raise my eyebrows, but he doesn't notice, since he isn't looking at me. "My gang and I were figuring out how to use it, but then the Japanese police raided our hideout and stole it back."

"So the Japanese police did that to you?" When I allow myself a glimpse of the scar, it seems even worse than when I first saw it. His face looks as though it's been half burned off, the skin charred and leathery. It's gruesome, even through my goggles. I swallow and look away again.

"No." There's a soft squeak of leather as he crosses his arms. "I set off some explosives I'd planted in the hideout so I could make a run for it."

I freeze with the cigarette halfway to my lips. "Fuck," I say in a faint voice, rather ineloquently. It's really the only word that can sum up my thoughts right now. I stub the cigarette out in the ashtray on the coffee table. "How the hell did you get out of there alive?"

Mello smirks. "It wasn't that bad." He notices the incredulous look I'm giving him. "Okay, so it was bad, but I escaped the worst of the explosion. I was wearing a gas mask, so it only got half of my face. Most of it didn't hurt." He shrugs. "The nerve endings were all gone."

I shudder, feeling more than a little sick. "You could have died of fluid loss, or infection, or—"

"I know. But I didn't. All I needed was a little luck and some knowledge of burns." He yawns, as if to emphasize that it's no big deal. "Keep it clean and cool but not cold, don't let anything touch it, basic stuff like that."

How he could have remembered anything about field medicine while running away from a burning building with his face on fire is beyond me. "How did you get yourself to a hospital before going into shock?"

"Hospital?" He looks at me like I'm stupid. "You think I'd go to some emergency room and leave a record? Burns that cover less than twenty percent of the body are low-priority treatment, anyway." _All third-degree burns need immediate medical attention, you idiot_, I want to tell him, but I keep my mouth shut. "I had a kit hidden about a quarter mile away, with a clean sheet, bottled water, antibiotics—stuff like that. It wasn't too hard to fix myself up. It could've been a lot worse."

So, he had expected the possibility of treating himself for severe burns when he'd rigged the explosives... That settles it. He's fucking insane. "You say all you needed was a _little_ luck?" I exclaim, shaking my head. "Man, I think you're stretching the limits of the English language there." I don't want to count all the ways he could have kicked the bucket. Never mind hypoperfusion or various other medical complications—if the police had caught him, the burn would've been the least of his problems.

His smirk expands into a slightly manic grin. "I guess you could say God was on my side," he says. As if God would be looking out for someone like Mello. To get to the top in organized crime, I'm pretty sure you have to break at least half of the Ten Commandments.

It's too incredible to think about. Whether it was a divine miracle or just a fluke, Mello has officially wormed his way out of the deepest shit I've ever seen anyone get into. I guess he really must be too damn pretty to die.

* * *

Conversation with Mello is awkward, but I'm getting used to it, I think. I'm just suspending my disbelief that he's sitting on my couch, scarred and leather-clad, slowly explaining what he's been up to during the past three months. I have too many questions and he doesn't have enough answers, but for some reason, it's all right. I still have the feeling that I _know_ him. Why is it so easy to fall into familiarity with Mello, when almost nothing about him is familiar any more?

We've been talking for at least an hour now. Far more disconcerting than Mello's presence is the stuff he's telling me about the Kira case. Killer notebooks, Shinigami, kidnappings, blackmail, and—most shocking of all—exchanging information with _Near_. Well, if the white-haired wunderkind has accepted invisible, extra-dimensional death gods as fact, I guess I'll have to do the same.

But there's still the one question hanging between us that I'm afraid to ask. It's an ugly, painful question, like a ragged splinter, and I know it'll hurt when I try to rip it out, but I have to know the answer. "Mello... I've got to ask you something."

"Okay." He stops relating yesterday's events and looks at me inquisitively.

"Why did you leave without saying goodbye?" My face feels carved out of marble, cold and unmoving. I can't look directly at him.

There's a strained pause. Maybe he doesn't have an answer—maybe the only possible reason is that he's just a jerk, and I don't think Mello would ever admit that. I feel my stomach sinking. Then he says, "You didn't find the note?"

"Note?" I glance up sharply. "You left a note?"

Mello's eyes widen. "Shit." He looks slightly sickened. "You must be even more pissed off at me than I thought, if you didn't even read the... God, Matt, I'm so sorry."

My voice is hollow. "Where did you leave it?"

He looks down and starts fiddling uneasily with his rosary. "In your copy of _Paradise Lost_," he says hoarsely. "The back cover."

That was the book we were studying in Advanced Literature that term. I remember, because that was the only assigned book that I never finished reading. I locked myself in the room for days and didn't go to classes when Mello was gone. All of my work was abandoned until after New Year's, when the next term started. Of course I never cracked open that goddamn book ever again.

"I never would have left without telling you," Mello insists, his voice constricted. "Never. I thought you knew that."

"All I knew was that you did," I respond quietly, trying to keep the tremor out of my voice.

I get no satisfaction from looking at Mello's stricken, scarred face. It isn't hard to see the fourteen-year-old in his features now, exposed, defiant and unsure. This is someone who has committed murder, extortion, and countless other despicable crimes, who has survived the streets and the mob, who has managed to escape from so many fires—figurative and literal—that he started himself. He's scary as hell, and more than a little evil. I should be terrified of him, but I'm not. He shouldn't be tormented with remorse for what he did to _me_ all those years ago—the most innocent of his sins—but he is.

The worst has already happened, and he's still here. I've listened to his story so far; I haven't kicked him out, even though that might be exactly what he deserves. I know now that he actually gives a shit, and that he did back then, too. And no matter how illogical or stupid it is, I find myself forgiving him.

Mello's still staring resolutely away from me; I have to say something. "Mello..."

When Mello finally looks in my eyes and sees the absolution waiting for him there, his face softens infinitesimally. It will take a lot more time and effort, but I think I'm well on my way to having my best friend back, magnificent bastard that he is.

We sit in expectant silence for a while. Then Mello stands up. He seems a little sheepish, but at least he isn't looking all guilty and hangdog any more. "I need a chocolate bar," he announces. He walks to the door and starts searching all the pockets of his coat.

"So... um..." I look at him over my shoulder. "Near thinks the person pretending to be L right now is Kira himself?" Besides the fact that I'm trying to make normal conversation at this awkward juncture, I'm really trying to wrap my head around the concept.

"Yeah. That's what Halle told me." He continues rifling through his enormous coat. "I had already known that Kira was somehow connected to the Japanese police, but I just thought the L impostor was an incompetent idiot," he says. "He's been bluffing this whole time."

I let out a low whistle. "No wonder they haven't made any progress in the last five years... Kira's even more of a bastard than I thought."

"No shit." He finally finds a chocolate bar and greedily tears open the foil wrapper.

And when it rained money two days ago... that was _Near?_ I shouldn't be surprised. Something that extravagant smacks distinctly of the kid's style, and when I saw the news of the crazy mob in Manhattan attacking a mysterious anti-Kira organization, I guess I knew subconsciously that Near might have been involved. I've just been accustomed to ignoring Kira as hard as I can for five years. Until two hours ago, the hunt for him was always Somebody Else's Problem; it struck too close to home.

Mello gnaws pensively on the end of his chocolate and walks back to the couch. "How'd you get all the intel from this Lidner woman, anyway?" I ask when he flops down on the cushion next to me. "Did you fuck her, or what?"

He laughs humorlessly. "I don't let that kind of thing distract me from what I need to do." He licks the chocolate residue off his lips. "Halle's all right. She paid for me to get to New York, you know. She made sure I was okay after the shit went down in L.A... She didn't even tell Near about me, even though the little prick figured out everything on his own." His thoughtful expression displays a hint of true gratitude—pretty rare for Mello. Then he shrugs casually, with a little arrogant smirk that manages to look winning rather than obnoxious. "She did want me—still does, probably—but hey, who can blame her?"

I shake my head. From the way he talks, you'd think Mello's ego is inflated about as much as a blimp, but I think maybe it's just bravado. Anyway, I don't have time to dither over Mello's self-esteem. "One more thing," I remind him, resting my elbow on the back of the sofa and propping up my head. "What do you actually need my help with?"

His expression is serious, but his tone is light. "Nothing too dangerous, but mostly illegal. Some surveillance and tracking work." He nods at my laptop. "I'll need your hacking expertise, too."

I shrug. "Sure. I'll do it."

He cocks his head slightly and brandishes his half-eaten chocolate bar. "I can't pay you, you know. All the mafia funds are out of my reach at this point. Right now, Halle's paying for a room for me, but I only have enough cash left over for myself."

Shaking my head, I reassure him, "It doesn't matter. I've got enough for both of us, and I've got lots of equipment. I do shit like this for a living." I lean back and put my legs on the coffee table. "How else do you think I pay for all my video games?" I do legal jobs, too, but of course the ones on the wrong side of the law are more lucrative.

He looks at me uneasily. "I really do need you to do this with me. There isn't anyone else left." He takes another bite of chocolate. "Even after all I've seen in the mob, you're still one of the best tech and espionage guys I know, and I'm sure you've only gotten better over the years." His face breaks into a mischievous smile. "Remember when you put those cameras in Roger's office?"

I crack a grin. "Yeah, that was fun." The old codger didn't really do anything interesting except maintain his insect collection and discipline unruly students, but the point was that I had managed to infiltrate his office and spy on him for about two months before anyone noticed the cameras. I'm damn good at that stuff.

"All right," Mello says, and I can tell the gears of his impressive mind are whirring at full speed. "Halle said that Near talked to a couple of guys on the Japanese task force... They're going to resume investigation on the person that the real L suspected of being the Second Kira. Halle told me when this other SPK agent's going to drop off those two guys at the airport, so in order to get anywhere with this lead, I've got to follow them. Can you help me do that?"

"Of course," I answer, sitting up straight. "When should we start?"

There's a shrewd glint in his eye as he stands up decisively and crosses his arms. "Right now."


	2. Stealth

****

A/N: The material of chapters 1-3 has now all been combined into one chapter, as of August 16, 2010. New material starts in chapter 2. Sorry for any confusion.

Thanks as always to my wonderful beta, Meiyl.

_Disclaimer: The story and characters of Death Note were created by Tsugumi Ohba and Takeshi Obata. This chapter contains dialogue quoted from the English edition of the manga._

* * *

**2. Stealth**

* * *

Somehow, when Mello said that I had to help him follow these two Japanese guys, it didn't occur to me that he meant we had to follow them _on a plane_. Mello's told me to get my fake IDs and credit cards, pack up all my surveillance equipment, and bring anything else I need for traveling. He won't tell me how long we'll be gone, so I just throw some clothes, my laptops, and two handheld games in my old suitcase. I can buy anything else I might need.

He's staring at me impatiently while I pack—I guess he really meant it when he said that we had to start _right now_. But Near's agent won't be dropping the guys off for another forty-five minutes, so I don't see why I should hurry. We could have spent less time just sitting around and talking, but I guess I wouldn't have agreed to help him if he had said what he wanted right away. Actually, I still don't know why I agreed to help him—but damn it, it's time I had some fun. I haven't gone further than a mile from my apartment in months.

When Mello stops hovering over me for a couple of minutes—either to get more chocolate, or to go to the toilet—I kneel on the floor and surreptitiously pull a dusty cardboard box out from under my bed. All the stuff I took with me from Wammy's when I moved out... there isn't anything in here that I really need to take with me now, but I just want to look at one thing.

After digging under all the crap at the top of the box—doodle-covered notes from computer classes, some drawings that Linda gave me, an older pair of goggles with a cracked lens—I find what I'm looking for. All the other books in here are battered and dog-eared, but my copy of _Paradise Lost_ is pristine. Bitter memories flood me of the day Mello left, and I have to remind myself of the reason why remembering doesn't have to hurt as much now. If what Mello said was true, inside this book is proof that he cared about me.

I open the book for the first time in five years. My breath catches when I see that behind the front cover is a small piece of paper folded in thirds. But I hear Mello coming back, so I quickly shove the box back under the bed.

"Are you almost done?" Mello asks irritably.

"Yeah, just let me get my vest and lock up, then we can get out of here."

He nods. "All right. I'll take some of your stuff down to the car."

As I hand him a suitcase full of equipment, I do a double-take. "You have a car?"

He shrugs. "Yeah. I'm just renting it for the day."

I follow him out of my bedroom and to the front door, where I put on my vest and quickly slip the note into an inner pocket. "Can I drive?"

"Nope," he replies shortly, and I give an exaggerated sigh of disappointment. "Hurry up, will you? I'll give you five minutes."

"Okay, okay," I say as he hefts the suitcase and shuts the door behind him.

When I finish gathering the rest of my stuff and look back at my haphazard apartment, I briefly wonder if I'll actually be coming back. Then I find that I don't care. If I don't pay my rent, the landlord can just throw the rest of my shit away. I have no ties to this city; it was never home anyway.

I lock the door, stuff the key in my pocket, and smile, whistling as I pick up my bags and head to the stairs at the end of the hall.

* * *

Mello eats chocolate even while he's driving, and he drives pretty damn recklessly. It doesn't really bother me, but I curiously ask him, "When did you get a license?"

He swerves into the next lane on the highway while taking another bite. "License?"

I chuckle. "If you keep driving like that, the cops are going to pull us over and haul you off. It would be pretty lame if you got arrested for something as stupid as a traffic violation, you know?"

"Whatever. We're here."

He pulls up to the curb and scans the mob of people outside the airport, checking the digital clock on the dashboard. "They should be here right now... there. Those two. Aizawa and Mogi."

He points to two men who have just climbed out of a fancy-looking car with tinted windows. One is big and hefty-looking; the other is shorter and has a sparse beard. "They look pretty serious. Oh, and also, don't those guys want to arrest and possibly kill you? Maybe we should be farther away."

Mello doesn't seem to be listening; he just looks out the windshield in deep thought, gripping the steering wheel with one hand and his chocolate bar with another. Then he abruptly says, "Okay, let's go. I'll drop off the car while you go in there with some of your stuff and get the first two tickets available to L.A. Pay any amount you need to make sure that one of them is on their flight. And give me one of your credit cards."

"Uh—okay." I guess Mello's used to throwing a lot of money around, being in the mob and all. As long as we don't do this every day, I can probably afford it. I pull out a random credit card from my vest and hand it to him. "I'll meet you past security." He nods curtly and takes another bite of chocolate as I get out of the car. "Hey, Mello?" I call out as I get two of the bags from the backseat. "Where are we going to live when we get there?"

"I've got one safe place left. I'll stay there, and you'll get a hotel room near wherever it is we follow these guys to. I can monitor stuff from my place once you set everything up. Come on, watch where they're going!"

"All right, I'm watching." I glance up, seeing the two men walking toward the entrance. "See you in a bit." I slam the car door and run to catch up to them while Mello drives away.

* * *

Seven hours later, I've logged a good amount of playing time on my newest video game, slept for a while, read two in-flight magazines, and eaten three packets of pretzels. Now I guess I actually have to pay attention again, since the plane's about to land at LAX and I have to watch the two guys I'm supposed to be following.

Mello's on another flight. I could only get one ticket on each plane, but Mello said I had to be the one tailing Aizawa and Mogi, since I'll be able to see where they go while Mello drops off all my equipment at his place. Plus, they might recognize him if he were on the plane with them, and then things could get ugly.

Once the plane taxis to the gate and the seatbelt sign switches off, I quickly make my way out. Luckily I'm in an aisle seat and Mello has all the luggage on the other flight, so it isn't difficult for me to catch up to Mogi and Aizawa as they get off the plane and head toward the terminal.

I casually walk about fifteen meters behind them until they hail a cab at the curb outside the airport. I flag down the next one and tell the driver, "Follow that taxi," feeling like the hero of some cheesy action movie.

We end up driving for a long while, until we're in the city proper. When the cab ahead of us stops at a swanky-looking apartment building, I tell the driver to pull over, shove a wad of cash at him, and get out of the car. I guess I've got nothing to do now until they come back out of the building, so I sit down on the curb and pull out my cell phone. Mello hasn't switched his phone on yet; I leave him a message with the address of the apartment building. He probably isn't going to get here for another couple of hours. I wonder whether this is where the Second Kira suspect lives, and if Mogi and Aizawa are talking to him right now.

It's a long wait. Just when I start to worry that a cop might come along and try to apprehend me for loitering, a motorcycle pulls up to the opposite curb. The biker is wearing all black leather and dark sunglasses, but I can tell it's Mello by his shock of blond hair. He beckons to me, and I run across the street.

"Nice bike," I say appreciatively, hands in my vest pockets.

"Has anything happened?" he asks over the sound of the engine.

"Nope. The two of them went into that building about an hour and a half ago and haven't come out yet."

"Maybe they're—Look." He nods toward the building and I turn around to see Aizawa walking out the front doors. Mello revs up his motorcycle again. "Matt, you stay here. I'll tail that guy."

Sitting around for a little while longer is fine by me. "Okay." Maybe Aizawa is going back to the Second L's headquarters, and Mello will be able to find out where it is.

After Mello rides away again, I pull out my handheld game from one of my voluminous vest pockets. I don't have any cigarettes with me, but I might as well indulge my other addiction.

I glance up from my game whenever I see someone coming out the door, but it's another hour before Mogi exits the building. Hanging onto his arm is a short Asian girl with dyed blonde hair. She's wearing a stylish jacket and boots, so she's probably at least sixteen, even though she looks about twelve. What the hell is Mogi doing with her?

Cautiously, I start to follow the two of them as they head to the nearby shopping district. There are still some business hours left in the day, and I remember with a shock that it's still the day after Thanksgiving. It feels like the longest day of my life, even though it's technically only been extended by a three-hour time zone difference.

I guess I should call Mello and tell him about this girl that Mogi's with. Mello answers after only one ring. "What's the matter, Matt?"

I get right to the point. Mello appreciates efficiency. "A young woman..." I squint at her again. "Well, a woman who looks like a child... lives in the room that Mogi went into."

"A woman?" Mello sounds doubtful. I guess I'm surprised, too. The Second Kira is a woman?

"At first sight, she looks like Mogi's girlfriend. They've gone shopping with their arms linked..." The girl shrieks and points out something in a shop window. "If you'll pardon my expression... she's an awfully cute Japanese girl. I can't tell her age, but I'm guessing it's anywhere from fourteen to twenty."

"Are you serious, Matt?"

He seems frustrated with my inexactitude, but how the hell am I supposed to know how old she is? "Yeah, very serious." Maybe he's just as incredulous as I am that the Second Kira could be this bubbly, perky girl.

"Okay. I can't do anything yet, so we'll start with that girl."

I shrug, doubtful that this will lead anywhere, but I guess Mello knows what he's doing. "Okay. If I scout around her apartment, I can probably find a weak point in the security and get at least a few cameras in there within a couple of days."

"Good."

I watch as the girl drags Mogi behind her into a boutique. "Should I keep following them for now?"

"Yeah, don't let them out of your sight. Hey, I had no idea you were this interested in pretty girls," Mello teases.

"Didn't say I was interested," I say mildly, checking my watch. How long were the girl and Mogi going to be in there? "She's nice to look at from a distance, but from what I can see of her behavior so far, she actually seems pretty fucking annoying."

"So, did you ever have a girlfriend during the time I was gone?"

"Huh?" I snort. "'Course not. What girl would ever be interested in me?"

"Oh, I dunno," he says evenly. "I thought it was pretty obvious that Linda had a thing for you back at Wammy's."

Yeah, right. Linda asked me to play football with her and the other kids, like, once. "Whatever. I'm just not into girls. Don't think I ever will be."

"So, you haven't changed at all... Unless you're actually into boys."

The idea of being attracted to anyone at all is giving me a stomachache. "Oh, very funny, Mello. You know my true loves are Nintendo and Linux." I give a mocking amorous sigh. "No human being could ever compare."

He chuckles. "Well, even if you aren't getting distracted by how sexy this girl is—"

"I said she was cute, not sexy." The only thing I've ever thought was sexy is my newest laptop. Eight gigs of RAM, a quad-core processor, the most powerful graphics accelerator on the market... now _that's_ what I'd call attractive.

"Fine, by how _cute_ this girl is—just don't let your guard down, all right? Pay attention at all times."

"Yeah, yeah, I will," I assure him, but he's already hung up.

* * *

Finally, it's nearly 2200 hours and the longest day of my life will be over soon. Mogi and the short blonde girl went back to her apartment a while ago, but my work isn't over yet, apparently—I've got to meet up with Mello again in another part of the city, where he tailed Aizawa earlier this evening. I don't feel like shelling out the money for another taxi, so I take the bus, concentrating on not falling asleep in my seat. When I hop off at the correct stop after a fifteen-minute ride and squint through the glare of the streetlights, I spot a dark figure standing next to a motorcycle in the parking lot in front of a hotel. I suppress a chuckle; Mello's still wearing his huge aviator sunglasses, even at night.

He doesn't bother to greet me when I walk up to him. "I checked you into that hotel. Here's your key and room number," he says, perfunctorily shoving them into my hands. "I've already put some of your laptops and cameras in there, but you'll need to set them up to observe their room..." He points to the building across the street. "Four windows up, three windows across."

I stow the key card in the back pocket of my jeans. "What about that girl's apartment?"

Mello crosses his arms and frowns at the pavement. "I thought it'd be too hard to install any cameras or wiretaps in Aizawa's room over there, since it might be the Kira task force headquarters and they'll probably have good security... but if you can break into the girl's flat, I can do surveillance remotely. All the rest of the monitoring equipment is back at my place. Once you set that up, you can stay here and watch Aizawa and his guys."

"Okay, I can do that." When Mogi and the girl went out earlier, they spent a good four hours going to all the shops, so if they go out again in the next couple of days, they'll probably be gone long enough for me to sneak in, stick a couple of cameras and bugs in unobtrusive places, and get out of there with time to spare. But I need to figure out the times that they're likely to leave and whether there's anyone else in the apartment. "I should probably spend another day observing them, just in case," I add.

Mello nods. "So we'll both stay in this hotel room tonight and I can monitor from here tomorrow. It's probably more important to watch Aizawa than this Second Kira girl, but I'm not about to pass up a lead..." He stretches his arms, looking over at me from behind his ridiculous sunglasses. "This is probably the only time we'll be able to get food and shit before we have to start doing round-the-clock surveillance. Come on."

Wait a second... "Uh, Mello—what do you mean, _round-the-clock_ surveillance? Aren't we going to sleep at all?" He mounts his motorcycle and I clamber up behind him.

"Not much." Mello grabs the handlebars and starts the motor. "This is what you've signed up for, man... four hours of sleep a night, long hours of staring at monitors, junk food meals. Sounds like exactly how you've always spent your life."

"Hey!" My nose wrinkles at the thought of how boring it all sounds. "That's not true! At least I'm usually _doing_ something when I'm looking at a TV screen." Maybe Mello doesn't consider playing video games to be doing something, but I certainly do.

Mello laughs over the roar of the engine. "Shut up and hold on."

I hesitate for a fraction of a second before putting my arms around Mello's waist. It occurs to me that this is the first time I've touched him all day, the first time I've touched him in five years. Mello isn't really one for hugs, but I guess he's not about to let me go flying off the back of his motorcycle, even if he's not concerned enough about road safety to wear a goddamn helmet. At least we're not going on the highway tonight, and there isn't much traffic.

It's a short ride to a little grocery store a few streets over. Mello's pretty familiar with the area, so he knows which places are open late. After he parks in front of the place and we hop off, I want to talk to him more about the Kira case, but it probably isn't a good idea. We're the only people in the store at this hour, and we already look weird enough as it is; I don't think Mello would appreciate calling more attention to ourselves.

He grabs a basket by the entrance and drags me down one of the narrow aisles. "The hotel didn't provide nearly enough coffee, so we've got to stock up." Pulling a few packets of instant coffee off the shelf, he gestures down the aisle. "Chuck in whatever food you like, too—just make sure it's nonperishable and has loads of calories."

After we've piled more than enough coffee into the basket, we start foraging for other provisions—potato crisps and energy drinks, mostly. I'm going to need a lot of carbohydrates and caffeine if I'm going to be spending many late nights monitoring camera feeds. I notice that Mello's only added some ramen packets to our collection of purchases. "Aren't you going to get any chocolate?"

He shakes his head. "You're paying for all this, you know. I'll get my own chocolate." I shrug and we make our way to the empty checkout, where one grumpy-looking cashier is standing impatiently behind the counter. I flash one of my fake IDs and ask for cigarettes, then hand him a couple of twenties and wait for him to ring everything up. Good thing I brought several hundred dollars in cash on the plane today, since I doubt I'll have time to get to an ATM in the next few days.

It's a bit awkward for me to hold the groceries between me and Mello as we ride back to the hotel, but I manage to not drop anything. It's past 2300 now, so it feels like two in the morning—how is Mello still alert enough to drive a motorcycle? It can't just be the caffeine in his chocolate; maybe Mello is just better than I am at staying awake. How ironic, since at Wammy's, I used to stay up for hours playing video games while he fell asleep in his calculus book long before dawn.

After Mello parks his bike in the hotel lot, I hand him one of the bags and dig in my back pocket for the key card. It's a bit hard to see in the dark with my goggles on, but Mello must have it worse with his stupid sunglasses. I guess we're both too stubborn to take off our eyewear for something as inconsequential as a lack of sunlight.

Once I've swiped us through the back door, I start to move toward the lift, but Mello stops me. "Let's take the stairs." I shrug and follow him, remembering his aversion to small enclosed spaces. Lounging on a sofa all day with a game console doesn't do much for my physique, even if it keeps my fingers nimble and my reflexes sharp, so Mello climbs to the fourth floor much more quickly than I do. He's already leaning impatiently against the door to our room by the time I get up there; I shove him out of the way and roll my eyes at him as I unlock the door. Maybe I'd have gotten here faster if he'd carried more of the groceries.

The room isn't half bad, I note as Mello flicks on the lights and strides over to the window. Very weird atmosphere, though—everything is strangely cubical. The far wall is covered in rectangular slats, with cutouts for the windows that overlook the street. A pattern of squares covers the floor, matching the square tables and bed. Instead of a couch, there's some kind of strange stylized bench that looks like it was stolen out of a park. Well, this is L.A., after all, and we're in a kind of artsy district. At least it seems to have the ordinary amenities: mini fridge, coffee maker, microwave. Unfortunately, I don't think I'll be using the shower much during my stay here, but I'm sure the toilet works.

I start unloading all the energy drinks into the fridge while Mello stares out one of the oblong windows. We haven't said anything since we walked in, and the awkwardness of the situation is starting to get to me. Mello and I were roommates for years at Wammy's, but there's a big difference between sharing a room with my best friend and sharing a room with a guy who dropped off the face of the earth five years ago and has suddenly reappeared to drag me across the country as his partner in crime. It can't be helped, though. As Mello said, I signed up for this.

"So, um..." I uneasily break the silence. "I, uh—I can sleep on the floor. That bench doesn't look too comfortable."

"What?" Mello turns away from the window. "Oh, go ahead and take the bed. I'm not sleeping tonight." He walks over to one of the cases of equipment in the corner and starts to flip open the metal fasteners. "You paid for this room. You should get the bed anyway."

"Oh, uh... okay," I shrug. It doesn't really make a difference to me; I can sleep almost anywhere. "Why aren't you going to sleep?"

He looks up at me. "Well, I'd make you set up the cameras and stay up to do the monitoring, but I thought you should get a full night of rest. We've got a long couple of weeks ahead of us." How oddly thoughtful of him.

"Is it really necessary to monitor their place in the middle of the night?" I ask him skeptically.

"Yeah, it is. What if somebody goes in or out? We're talking about a police task force here; they won't keep normal hours."

I shake my head and kneel down to unpack one of the remaining cases. "Okay, I'll sleep, but I've got to at least help you do the setup. This is expensive shit."

"I'm not going to break anything." Mello smirks at me, but the expression is somehow humorless. "Trust me, I've dealt with expensive shit before." Why do I keep on forgetting that Mello was in the mafia for a year and a half?

We silently get out all the cameras, tripods, and cables and start connecting everything up. When the cameras are ready to be placed at the windows, I turn out the lights so we won't be seen from the street, and a sudden wave of sleepiness hits me. I've been awake for at least seventeen hours—not my longest streak by a long shot, but everything I've done today as well as the shock of Mello's presence has made me absolutely exhausted.

"I can take it from here," Mello says, adjusting the focus on one of the cameras and checking the feed on the connected laptop. "I'll wake you up in seven hours."

I kick off my boots and fall on top of the bed, pulling off my goggles. I don't really see the point of changing out of my clothes. "Mello?" I call out after a couple of minutes.

There's a click as he turns on the TV set. "Yeah?"

"Is all of this really going to help us get to Kira?"

Mello exhales almost inaudibly, but I can tell that it's a sigh. "Just go to sleep, Matt." I roll over and try to comply. As I allow my eyelids to slide shut and attempt to get comfortable on the unfamiliar bed, I vaguely wonder what the hell I've gotten myself into.


	3. Oversight

****

A/N: If you began reading this story before August 16, 2010, you should know that the material that used to be chapters 1-3 has now all been combined into the first chapter. Chapter 2 in its current form was published on August 16, but a notification was not sent out and the "last-updated" day remained unchanged because it was replacing an existing chapter. Sorry for any confusion, and enjoy all the new material.

As always, I am grateful to my beta Meiyl for her support and excellent editing. This chapter is longer than all the others; this fact may be good, bad, or irrelevant.

_Disclaimer: The story and characters of Death Note were created by Tsugumi Ohba and Takeshi Obata._

* * *

**3. Oversight**

* * *

My estimate was a good one; it takes me precisely two days to break into the girl's apartment, install a few cameras, set up all the monitoring stuff for Mello to use, and get back to the hotel room to observe Aizawa's building. Now, after five days, the room is getting to be just the way I like it. The furniture is all pushed to the walls except for the bench, which I've dragged to the middle of the room. Wires snake across the floor from the cameras by the window to the TV and laptops; my surroundings are littered with leftover snacks and empty cans. After our initial supply run, I haven't had to go outside. Normally, I'd like that, but for the first time in my life, I think I'm getting a little stir-crazy. This drudgery is sure a letdown after all of Friday's excitement.

I'm smoking and playing Space Invaders when Mello calls me. I turn up the volume on my phone and leave it next to me so I can hear him without having to put down my game. He sounds almost as listless as I do. "Matt, how's it going for you?"

"Boring..." Biggest understatement of my life. "I've seen no movement at all. So far, they've had all their food and stuff delivered. And both Aizawa and the other Japanese guy who went into the building after him haven't come out. Which makes it very likely that this is their headquarters..." I blast a few more aliens. "But it's so boring watching something that never changes."

"Come on, I'm doing the same thing. And if L is there, then they may think that the SPK tailed Aizawa and discovered their location, so they might decide to move. If you're not careful, they could get away."

"Then why don't you change places with me? At least you get to eavesdrop on a cute girl," I say, only half-joking. After this much monotony, I can't say I wouldn't want to trade places, even if I had to listen to Misa Amane's insipid chatter fifteen hours a day.

"As you said, she's pretty fucking annoying." He yawns. "All she does is bounce around, put on makeup, and make Mogi cook stuff for her."

"I still can't believe that girl is or was the Second Kira," I say again, though we've hashed and rehashed the topic. When I think about it, it's kind of terrifying that this effervescent airhead could actually be a coldblooded serial killer.

My game makes some more tinny beeping noises. "Matt, are you playing Nintendo?" Mello asks, warning in his voice.

"Yeah. I told you, I'm bored."

"That doesn't mean you can slack off on the job," he growls. "I don't give a damn if nothing is happening on those cameras. I want you to watch them and _make sure_ nothing is happening."

"But this is cruel and unusual punishment," I proclaim, "and a total waste of my skills."

"How so? One of your skills is being able to sit in front of a screen for an ungodly length of time."

"I consider that to be an ability, not a skill," I say loftily.

He snorts, and I can imagine him rolling his eyes. "What's the difference?"

"A skill is something I've trained myself to do and pride myself on," I clarify. "An ability is something that I can do, but don't really give a shit about."

"Oh, I see. So wasting all your time playing video games is a skill, and helping me get information about Kira is something you don't give a shit about?"

"Hey, no need to get all sarcastic." I switch off my game and sit up straighter on the bench, frowning at the phone next to me. "Mello, I do want to help you get Kira. I'll do anything I can to back you up. I mean it."

"Okay, Matt. I believe you." I can't tell if he's being serious or not. "Keep watching the camera feeds. Tell me if anything happens."

I sigh resignedly. "I will." At least I can smoke and watch a video feed at the same time.

* * *

Four days later, I really think I am starting to go slightly insane. I feel a bit sick from subsisting solely on junk food, nicotine, and crappy instant coffee, I haven't changed my clothes in a week, and Mello won't even let me sleep for more than four hours at a time. And of course I'm still bored out of my skull.

I've decided to sit by the window for a few hours in hopes that the weak sunlight might help keep me awake. I rub my face exhaustedly, hunched forward on the bench, my eyes aching behind my goggles. Ugh, what the hell, is that stubble on my chin?

The laptop screen in front of me makes my eyes sore even though I've got it turned down to the lowest brightness setting. I almost don't notice two of L's guys come out the front door of their headquarters, wearing their usual smart jackets and serious expressions. This is the first time any of them have left the building in days... maybe something's up.

Still watching the laptop screen, I grab my phone and speed-dial Mello. He sounds slightly distracted as he picks up and asks, "What's up, Matt?"

"Mogi and Aizawa are outside together." Now that I think about it, it isn't a very exciting update, but whatever. "I don't know what they're talking about, but they sure do look unusually serious for people just chatting outside."

Mello answers after a pause. "Okay, keep an eye on them."

I suppress a yawn. "I'm getting pretty tired. I don't know how much longer I can stay awake."

"Well, you're going to have to stay awake. Deal with it." There's a sharp cracking noise.

"Hey, how do you still have money to buy chocolate?" I ask suspiciously. "I thought you said last week that all your mafia funds were gone."

I can hear him _licking_ his chocolate bar. It's rather disconcerting. "They are, but I told you, I have enough cash left over for myself," he says around a mouthful. "I did nab a few hundred bucks when Near pulled that stunt back in New York."

"You bastard!" I chuckle in spite of myself. "You said you couldn't pay me, and you're spending all your money on chocolate?"

"Hey, it's a necessary living expense. You know what happens when I don't have my chocolate." Oh, I know what happens. A month after I came to Wammy's, I stole all his chocolate just for laughs, but I sure as hell wasn't laughing when he beat the shit out of me after he found out. Who knew a nine-year-old kid could have such a mean right hook?

I really don't get how he can be so addicted to chocolate, though. One of those bars has—what, thirty milligrams of caffeine at the most? That's less than half of how much is in a cup of tea, let alone coffee. I never heard of anyone who goes as crazy as Mello does when he needs a caffeine fix. Maybe it's psychological and not physiological, or some shit like that. Hell, I know I get a little off my head sometimes if I run out of cigarettes, but how bad could _caffeine_ withdrawal be? Honestly.

There's a crinkle from Mello's chocolate wrapper. "I found out something important, by the way," he says conversationally. "Turns out it wasn't completely useless to spy on Amane."

"What, is she actually the Second Kira, then?"

Another faint snapping noise. "She probably used to be. But from what she's been saying in her conversations with Mogi, I'm now almost positive of the identity of the Second L."

"Really?" Suddenly Aizawa takes out his cell phone to answer it. "Hang on... Aizawa's talking on his phone... Now he and Mogi are going back inside."

"They probably won't come out for another couple of hours, at least," Mello says. "But don't take your eyes off those camera feeds, all right?"

"Got it." I shudder with another expansive yawn. "You know, if we had just one other accomplice helping us with this surveillance shit, we could get a lot more sleep."

Mello laughs. "Sleep is overrated." I hear him crumpling the foil. "Keep your eyes open, Matt. I'm counting on you."

"Okay, I promise I won't take a nap. I'll talk to you later." I hang up and lift up my goggles to rub at my eyes. Damn it, three hours in the past twenty-four is _not_ enough sleep. I wearily return my attention to the laptop screen. Back to my personal hell.

I lose track of time as I stare moodily at the camera feed. After God knows how long, a delivery truck trundles up to the front of the headquarters. Seriously, the view is already boring enough, and now a gigantic truck has to get in the way of anything interesting? I sigh and grumble as I slouch further down and glance at the other monitors. The truck blocks every angle I've got, though admittedly, I don't have very many. Damn it.

After about forty-five minutes of blearily watching, it dawns on me that something slightly odd is going on. Why would it take this long for their food to get delivered? I lean forward suddenly, squinting at the image on the screen as the deliveryman walks around the side of his truck. He's got something in his hands... is that money? The truck starts to drive away, but the guy is still standing on the curb outside the building, counting what looks like a significant number of bills. What the hell is going on?

I scramble into a standing position. If I hurry, I can catch that delivery guy before he leaves. I probably look and smell pretty bad after staying holed up in here for nine near-sleepless days, but I don't really give a shit. I jump over the cables on the floor, grab my vest, and shrug into it as I head out the door.

Taking the stairs is probably the fastest way to get down to the parking lot. I hurtle down them two at a time and burst out into the street, spotting the delivery guy as he starts to walk away from the building. Checking briefly for traffic, I sprint to the other side of the road. "Hey! You there!"

The guy slowly turns around, still holding his fistful of cash. "Yeah? What do you want?" He looks suspiciously at my goggles.

"You're the guy who usually delivers food to this building, right?" I ask him, slightly out of breath.

"What's it to you, kid?"

I irritably take out a handful of cash and hold it up. It probably isn't as much as they've already given him, but it'll have to do. "If you answer all my questions, I'll give you this."

His greedy little eyes light up when he sees the money. "All right."

"How many people do you deliver to in there?"

He shrugs. "Don't know. The same guy always pays for the food."

"Well, how many are in there now?"

"Nobody's in there." He points his thumb back over his shoulder. "I just went up there to drop off the food, and the place was empty."

My stomach sinks. "Where the hell did they go?"

"Hey, beats me, kid. How am I supposed to know where they went? All I know is the guy paid to use my truck, and now nobody's there."

In disgust, I toss a few twenties to the guy and trudge back to the hotel. _They'll come back soon. They have to come back... they can't have just moved out right under my nose..._

I fumble around for my card key, stick it in the lock, and open the door to my musty room. Taking off my vest and rubbing my eyes again, I stagger over to the window. I'm going to have to look through all the footage to see what I could have missed, and hope that in the meantime, L's men will return to their empty headquarters... Damn it.

Mello is going to fucking _kill_ me.

* * *

I'm looking through the footage from last night for the fiftieth time. At least having nothing new to watch allowed me to snatch a few hours of sleep, so I might be coherent when I have to talk to Mello. I know I should call him and tell him that everyone left the headquarters, but I'm still stupidly hoping that they might come back.

No such luck. My phone rings, cheerily playing the Pokémon battle theme as if to mock my impending doom. _Fuck_.

I wonder with dread what I'm going to tell Mello as I hold the phone gingerly to my ear and listen to his harsh greeting. "What are you _doing_, Matt? Mogi's at LAX." His cold voice demands an explanation, but of course I don't have a good one.

"They got me, damn it!" I burst out, nearly tripping over a cable where I'm standing and almost dropping my laptop. "They must have paid the food delivery guy who came yesterday and used his truck to move out along with all their equipment," I explain bitterly after catching my balance again. All I can do is helplessly babble, hoping that Mello might possibly forgive me for my stupid, stupid mistake. "I questioned the usual delivery guy after he came out counting a wad of money, but the room was already empty... He couldn't even tell me how many of them there were. I had the camera rolling on all the exits and windows, but they used the truck's door to block the view..." My voice gets dangerously close to defensive whining, even though I know it's pointless to try to make excuses—I can tell Mello isn't impressed. I sum up my feelings of the situation with a final, weak "Shit..."

Shit.

I sweat in the lengthening silence. The only sound is Mello's breathing and chewing. I wince, waiting for the inevitable diatribe. I let them get away... it was my fault... he _told_ me to keep my eyes open...

"Matt, I'm going to tail Mogi to Japan. Follow me right away." His voice is curt and businesslike.

"Huh?" I say, caught completely off-guard. "Japan?... Seriously?"

"Yeah. I'm going to buy a ticket right now."

I guess I'm relieved that he seems to be making the best of my blunder instead of haranguing me about it, at least for now, but... it seems rather sudden. "How soon is right away? How long are we going to be there?"

"Right away means _as soon as fucking possible_, and we are going to be there until Kira goes somewhere else, preferably hell."

I open and close my mouth a few times like a discombobulated goldfish. "But... where are we going to stay?"

He aggressively takes another bite of his chocolate bar. "We'll stay in a hotel until we can rent an apartment. Set up headquarters there."

"What about your bike?"

He sighs. "If I can't bring it with me, I'll buy another one when we're in Japan. Just get all the equipment and get the hell out of there, all right? I'll give you six hours—after that you'd better be strapped in an airplane seat heading across the Pacific."

"Okay..." I guess six hours should be just enough time to wrap things up here, if I work fast. "Mello, really, I'm sorry about—"

"Forget about it, okay? We don't have time. See you in a while; I'll leave you a message when I get there." The line goes dead. I stare at the phone, fiddling with it in my gloved hands.

My mind is racing with everything I have to do as I shake myself out of my daze and start feverishly packing up the equipment. I might have to leave the last of my cash as a tip to the poor cleaning woman who's going to have to deal with the mess I've left in here. Damn, I hope I don't get charged extra. And Mello will still be angry when I meet up with him again...

Two weeks ago, I never would have guessed that right now I'd be frustrated and exhausted over an unpaid job for my long-lost friend. I've been working harder on this undertaking than I've ever worked in my life, but the weirdest thing is that I feel like I've been with Mello for ages, and it's only been nine days. As though we've gone back in time to our early days at Wammy's, my life now completely revolves around him.

I'm starting to wonder if my life is going to end with him, too. If the sleep deprivation doesn't kill me, maybe Mello will when he finally chews me out for my big screw-up. What a thing to look forward to... but the faster I work now, the sooner I can get some blessed sleep.

After an hour and a half of hurried packing, twenty minutes of getting my stuff downstairs and checking out, thirty-five minutes of waiting for a cab and taking it to the airport, forty-eight minutes of attempting to buy a ticket, and what seems like far too much time going through security, I collapse into a seat in the international terminal to wait for my flight. Mello only gave me six hours, and it looks like I'm going to make it just in time, unless the plane gets delayed. With my rotten luck, it might be.

I listlessly play Nintendo to keep myself from dozing, uncomfortably feeling the gaze of an old woman and a gum-chewing girl sitting across from me. I really hope I'm in a window seat on the plane and that whoever sits next to me will just leave me alone. It'll be hours before I can have another cigarette to calm my nerves. It makes me almost envy Mello's chocolate addiction—at least candy bars aren't banned in public places.

Boarding time is probably soon. I take out my phone to check the time and see that I have a new voicemail, presumably from Mello. My insides squirm nervously. There's no way he could be in Japan already—maybe he ran into trouble. Cursing myself for missing the call and for not checking my phone earlier, I call my voicemail and wait for the message to play.

"_Hey, Matt_." Mello's voice sounds so cold and distant that I can't help but wince. "_I haven't boarded yet, and I have some time. Thought I'd call just to set some things straight. I guess you're busy getting to the airport and shit..._" There's an intake of breath on the recording, reminding me to breathe as well. At least it doesn't sound like he called in a dire emergency. "_Look... we both know what you did was stupid. Almost anybody would've seen through that trick they pulled, and you're supposed to be a genius, you know? I expected better from you._" Oh, shit, here it comes—another deep breath before his furious tirade. "_But I don't really blame you. I worked you too hard... hell, I bet you can barely see straight with how little sleep you've gotten._"

I blink in bewilderment. Is this really from Mello? Well, duh, of course it is—but if I didn't know better, I'd think that a calm, rational person had locked him in a closet, stolen his phone, and started imitating his voice. Nope, it's definitely not an impersonator—there's the telltale snap of a chocolate bar.

"_It's not even that big of a deal. I caught sight of Mogi in time to follow him... We know approximately where he's going. I bet Near's taking his team to Japan, too. It was going to happen eventually. So... when you get this, I mean it—just forget about what happened, okay? I don't want to hear about it or talk about it any more. Just know that... it's fine, and we're starting over. It'll work out._"

Does he really mean that? There has to be a catch—there's no way I'm just going to get off scot-free for my blunder. Mello has something up his sleeve, I'm sure of it. "_Oh—it looks like we're going to have to pay at least 80,000 yen a month to stay in a shared apartment... so you're paying for that. And you're also buying all the chocolate from now on._" A small laugh bubbles up from my chest. Now that's more like Mello. "_See you tomorrow. Call me when you get there, all right?_" The message ends without a goodbye. Typical.

The loudspeaker suddenly crackles and a calm woman's voice calls out over the noise in the terminal. "Flight 5015 to Tokyo now boarding." I jump out of my seat when I hear the announcement, quickly shutting off and stowing my phone. The people around me fumble around for their boarding passes and shuffle into a line at the gate, and I join them, lugging my bag behind me.

I realize that a lot of the tension has disappeared from my muscles, and it doesn't even matter that I'm in a middle seat wedged between two dour-looking businessmen. Now all I have to worry about for the next eleven and a half hours is sleeping and filling out a customs form—and wondering how I'm going to afford rent for the next however many weeks. Maybe I'll need to dip into my Wammy's trust fund... but it doesn't matter. If money is what it takes to stay in Mello's good graces, then I'll pay anything.

* * *

In the days since we've been here, Mello has barely left his room, except to leave the apartment on occasional mysterious missions. When we were looking for a decent flat, Mello insisted on renting one with two bedrooms, even though for the past week and a half I've just been sleeping on the couch. I'm fine with leaving Mello holed up by himself, using one of my laptops to hunt for information about Kira. He's tasked me with watching every Kira-related news report and keeping track of the latest killings. I'm fine with this job, since it leaves plenty of time for sleep and video games.

Mello emerges in the late afternoon, looking a bit haggard—perhaps sleep deprivation is catching up with him at last. He steps behind the couch and rests his elbows near my head, and I glance up at him through my goggles. His scar is still plainly visible even when viewed through orange plastic, but now that I'm a little more used to it, it seems like a mere shadow over the left side of his face.

I yawn hugely, stretching out my limbs. "So, you finally decided to take a break?"

Mello swats at my arm, which just missed hitting his head. "Sort of. There's a television program on soon that I want to look into. When was the last news report you watched?"

"About four hours ago," I reply, realizing that I've barely moved since then. I start to stand up to stretch properly, but quickly fall back on the couch again, cursing. "Damn it, my back hurts like a fucking _bitch_."

"Well, no wonder, the way you sit hunched over like that for God knows how long." Mello says dryly, sitting down at the other end of the sofa. "I'll give you a back rub if you cook dinner later."

Sounds like a good deal to me, even though I hate cooking. "Fine. But I thought all we had left was ramen."

"We've got some peas in the freezer," he says, scooting closer to me on the couch and putting his hands on my shoulders. "I got them last week. I thought we might get scurvy or some shit if we don't eat at least a few vegetables, you know?"

He starts trying to work the knots out of my trapezius muscles, and I draw my breath in sharply. I really hadn't realized how tense they'd gotten. "Ow! That hurts."

"Stop being such a baby," he retorts, digging in his fingers around my shoulder blades. He falls into a brooding silence for several minutes, concentrating on massaging my back. Mello used to do this for me when we were little kids, when I would sit hunched on the floor for too long playing video games. He's about as gentle as a saber-toothed tiger, but he's pretty good at it, I guess. It's just like old times.

I root around in my head for another conversation topic other than the decidedly boring one of what we're having for dinner. "Did anything new come up earlier while you were out?"

"Nope," he says shortly, kneading at the base of my neck. "Nothing to speak of. Kira still rules the world, we're still getting nowhere in our investigation, and I'm still hideous."

Oh, great, not this again. "Mello, you aren't hideous," I sigh, tilting my head back slightly to look at him. "No one cares what your face looks like, anyway."

He rolls his fists across my back. "I care what my face looks like. I know you do, too—you can't stand to look at me."

I twist around to face him. "What the hell are you talking about?" Does he seriously think that's true? "Is there something wrong with not wanting to stare at you _all the time?_"

"Stop moving. You're getting in the way," he grumbles, ignoring my pointed rhetorical question.

"Mello." I gently push away his hands and look at him severely. "Stop saying that you're ugly, okay? It's bullshit."

He rolls his eyes at me, but I'm telling the truth. How could Mello ever be ugly? He's always caught people's eyes with his gleaming blond hair and his angel face, but he's never just been a pretty boy. He's beautiful; there's no other word for it—but he'd probably think I was teasing him and smack me upside the head if I told him that. I shake my head and chuckle instead. "Fine. Say what you like," I say, raising my hands in surrender, the corner of my mouth pulling up in a slight smile. It's better to just drop an obviously touchy subject like this.

"Turn on the television," he commands, apparently still grumpy.

I reach over to grab the remote control from the table, then pause with my finger on the power button. "It isn't time for the news yet, is it?"

"Tune in to Sakura TV. They've got a new program on Takada—we might find out something important if we watch it."

"Yeah, right," I mumble, but I switch it on and flip through the channels until I see the pink blossom logo at the bottom of the screen.

My brain quickly adjusts to listening in Japanese as the cheesy voice of an announcer blares through the tinny speakers. "—_four female bodyguards from twenty finalists who went through vigorous testing_..."

"Do we really have to watch this stupid pro—" I start to complain to Mello, but he shushes me and points at the broadcast.

"Look—that's Halle!" I glance back quickly enough to see a photograph of a pretty blonde woman with a caption underneath labeling her as a former CIA agent.

"Whoa, Near works fast," I remark, impressed. He can't have been in Japan for much longer than we have, and he's already gotten one of his people this close to the enemy—while Mello and I are stuck following her at a distance and watching useless news reports.

Mello's brows are drawn in a thoughtful frown. "That settles it. Takada must be the key in getting to Kira." Maybe he looks a tad put out that Near got a step ahead of him, but at least we might have an advantage now.

"You're still on speaking terms with Lidner, right?" I tilt my head to the television set. "Maybe she could help us out."

Mello shakes his head slowly. "No. It'll be dangerous enough for her already to stay in contact with her boss, let alone with me... but this is still good. Now we know that we're focusing on the right target."

Even though Mello figured out over a week ago that the second L—Kira—must be the NPA chief's son, we both know that it's a dead end. We have no way of finding out where he's hiding, even though we know exactly who he is. When Kira's spokeswoman suddenly popped up on the Japanese news last week, we thought she might have a direct connection to Kira... now Near has conveniently confirmed for us that Takada is the best lead we've got.

"You know, Near's got to know who Kira is, just as much as we do," I muse. "He's in contact with him... so, if they wanted to, couldn't the SPK just get close to him and—"

"Kill him?" Mello asks quietly. We both know that's what Mello would do if he had the chance. "You know Near... he wouldn't want to end it that way. He's too fucking proud." I nod, conceding the point. Near may not be competitive like Mello, but everyone who grew up with him knows that he always has to win one hundred percent. He takes no risks; he doesn't tolerate any uncertainty.

And Near probably has the right idea in this case. It wouldn't really be bringing Kira to justice if he were knocked off like one of his countless victims, leaving no cold, hard proof of who was to blame. No one would know the truth—and would a quick, clean death even be enough for Kira to pay for what he's done? Mello wouldn't be satisfied in his revenge unless the bastard who murdered L died in humiliation and utter defeat. Maybe Near feels the same way... maybe I do, too.

I shift uneasily on the sofa and cross my arms. "So what are we going to do now?"

Mello stands up, suddenly full of energy. "We'll follow Takada. Watch her. Try to see how she gets in contact with Kira..."

"This is going to be even harder than spying on that Amane girl, isn't it," I sigh, sinking further down into the couch.

"You're telling me. Now come on, I'm hungry." He saunters into the kitchen, evidently pleased with himself for getting out of cooking duty.

I grudgingly push myself into a standing position, glad that my back feels much looser than it did when I first tried to stand up; I guess tonight's trade-off was worth it, since without Mello's back rub, I'd still be nearly immobilized on the couch. I pick up the remote control again to switch off the television, but right before I hit the button, I notice the banner at the bottom of the broadcast announcing today's date. "Mello?"

"What? he asks distractedly, turning back from the cabinet with a bar of chocolate in his hand.

"It's December fourteenth."

"So?"

"It was your birthday yesterday, moron. Unless I'm the moron and I forgot when your birthday is." I know full well that I have the date right, though—five years ago, I had been counting down the days till we were going to celebrate Mello turning fifteen, but he left Wammy's exactly eight days before.

"I know it was my birthday," he huffs, unwrapping the chocolate. "What do you want to do, bake a fucking cake?"

I frown. "Come on, you could at least let me go out to get some decent food. We could celebrate a day late." Ramen, frozen peas, and chocolate sound like the makings of a pretty lousy birthday dinner to me. Well, except maybe the chocolate.

He laughs harshly. "Today's the same as any other day. We don't have time for that kind of crap, especially since it isn't even my birthday any more. Forget about it." He takes a bite and chews it in a somewhat surly manner.

"But you just turned twenty..." How did that happen, anyway? Seriously, I still think of both of us as being about fourteen. "Don't you think that's an even _slightly_ memorable occasion?"

"No." Mello snorts derisively through his mouthful of chocolate. "Since when do you care so much about commemorating holidays?"

I shrug. "This isn't like Thanksgiving or New Year's or some shit like that," I mumble. I remember distastefully the raucous celebrations in New York City. But Mello's right—we don't have time to just hang out or goof off, no matter what day it is. Kira sure as hell won't take any vacations, so short moments like this are our only respite. "Okay, I get it," I sigh. "No birthday parties, and Christmas is postponed indefinitely until we save the world."

"That's right," Mello says, taking a seat at the tiny kitchen table. "Anyway, don't you think this is a great way to celebrate? Cooking dinner for me and helping me plan out the best way to spy on a beautiful woman?"

"Yeah, whatever," I reply, shaking my head as I take out a battered metal pot and start filling it with water to boil. "Happy birthday, you old reprobate. Here's to twenty more years of criminal antics."

"Thanks for the kind wishes," he calls back sarcastically.

I set the pot of water on the stove. "You know, I'll expect you to cook dinner on _my_ birthday," I tell him, grinning.

Mello crosses his legs and leans his chair backward, thoughtfully snapping off another bite of chocolate. "Then I hope all this is over before that day rolls around."


	4. Monochrome

****

A/N: Thanks again to Meiyl for being willing to help out with editing whenever I need her.

_Disclaimer: The story and characters of Death Note were created by Tsugumi Ohba and Takeshi Obata._

* * *

**4. Monochrome**

* * *

It's been another mind-numbing day of sitting around the apartment waiting for something to happen. I sigh and light up my fifth cigarette of the hour. The whole apartment is getting stuffy and full of stale smoke at this point, even though I cracked open all the windows. I'm supposed to be watching Takada's residence on a TV monitor, like I've been doing every day for almost a month now, but instead I'm watching dust float in a bright beam of sunlight in front of me. I want to play Nintendo, but I swear Mello will have kittens if he comes home and sees that I'm gaming instead of watching the camera feed.

I don't even look up when I hear the front door slam. All I'd see is Mello scowling at me, anyway—even the goddamn video feed is less unpleasant than _that_ image. Mello's been out following Takada and her mob of worshipers, an activity that never fails to put him in a black mood, and he obviously doesn't give a crap that my day has been just as shitty as his. If he hates scouting so much, why does he do it and leave me stuck at home watching nothing happen for hours on end? I guess I'm pretty sedentary, but even I get restless sitting on a couch for this long, if I'm not playing video games.

"Matt," Mello calls out after he's stomped into the kitchen. "I need a fucking chocolate bar. We got any left?" I can hear him raiding the cabinets—he sounds pretty agitated. "_Matt!_"

"I think I left some in the fridge," I yell back, absentmindedly staring at the monitor and feeling my vision blur. I don't know if it's from fatigue, or if I'm actually bored to tears. God, I need a break. "Mello..."

"What?" He reenters the sitting room, and I hear him tear open the wrapper of a chocolate bar and snap a bite off. It's always much louder than usual when the chocolate is cold.

"I'm sick of this," I grumble, waving my hand at the screen. "Why do I always have to do the boring stuff?" Do I detect a hint of whining in my own voice? Whatever.

"What's the problem, Matt? I thought you liked sitting in front of the TV all day." He breaks off another chocolate piece with his teeth.

"Shut up." I finally turn my head to look at him through the orange lenses of my goggles. "This was not in my job description! I'm a hacker, not some damn security monitor."

"I'm not paying you anyway, so what difference does it make?" Mello says frostily. "I thought you said you'd do whatever you can to help me bring down Kira."

"That's because I thought that bringing down Kira would involve doing something exciting," I point out, running my hand through my uncombed hair.

"Well, then you're in luck." Walking around to the front of the couch, he finishes the chocolate bar, crumples up the foil wrapper, and chucks it on the coffee table. "I've got a plan that'll spice up our lives a bit. You can turn off the video feed now; it's irrelevant." His tone is sardonic, but his mouth is set in a thin line, almost a grimace.

My interest is piqued immediately. I grab the remote from the coffee table and switch off the TV. "Want to tell me this thrilling plan of yours?"

"Take off your goggles first." He looks down at me sternly, as if he's my mother and he's ordering me to take off my shoes while I'm in the house.

I frown, fingering the strap defensively. "Why?"

"Because I want to look at your goddamn eyes when I'm talking to you!" he snaps. It seems best not to argue with him when he's like this, but I don't know what his fucking problem is. It's not like the lenses are mirrored or opaque or something. He's never had an issue with seeing my eyes before. "Shit, Matt, just take them off! This is important."

After hesitating for another couple of seconds, I slowly pull them away from my eyes and over my nose and chin, leaving them dangling around my neck. The skin around my eyes is smarting a bit from wearing them for so long, and the sunlight from the window is too bright. I squint and blink, and my eyes water just a little. "Happy now?"

Mello doesn't say anything. I finally manage to keep my eyes open without squinting, and I see that he's staring at me. He doesn't look angry, or even mildly annoyed; he's just gazing with a totally blank expression straight down into my eyes. "What?" I say, exasperated.

He still doesn't speak. Then he mutters, "I almost forgot what color your eyes really are. God, why do you have to wear those damn things all the time?"

As I meet his gaze, I realize that I'd almost forgotten the color of his eyes as well. I've hardly ever looked at him while not wearing my goggles. Without them, his eyes are intensely blue. The wine-dark scar on his face looks more jagged now; his shaggy hair is every shade of yellow and dark gold. His pale skin and the red and white rosary around his neck stand out starkly against his black leather vest.

"Okay, I'm looking at you. So tell me the plan," I prompt him.

Without dropping his gaze, he calmly tells me, "I'm going to abduct Kiyomi Takada."

After blinking in shocked silence for quite a while, I voice the only possible response to Mello's declaration. "Are you out of your fucking _mind?_" I can't believe someone who's supposed to be a genius could come up with something like this. "Do you _want_ your identity to be exposed? I don't pretend to understand everything about the killer notebook, but it's pretty obvious to me that if anyone finds out your name or sees your face, it's all over. Call me stupid, but I think kidnapping the supposed goddess of a bunch of crackpots would be pretty bad publicity, if you know what I mean."

I don't even know what Mello's real name is—hopefully, no one does. We only went by our aliases at the institution. Mr. Wammy himself probably knew our names at one point, but of course he's dead now—that was Kira's fault, too.

"The Japanese police already have my name," Mello says in a low voice. I gape at him, but he goes on without pause. "The night I blew up the hideout... The deputy director had the Shinigami eyes, and he saw my face. He almost wrote my name in the notebook before José shot him." He absentmindedly trails his fingers along the edges of his scar. "He said it out loud. I'm sure his helmet was wired, so the rest of the NPA must have heard him, even if he died before he could tell them in person... Poor bastard. He didn't have the guts to kill me quick enough."

I'm so shocked by this report that I can only blink for a few seconds. "What the _fuck_, Mello..." So, he had nearly died twice that night, and now he's gunning for a third time. What the hell is wrong with him? "You're telling me your plan is to just hand your head to Kira on a goddamn platter?" My voice is rising in pitch and volume, but I can't stop it. "How the hell will you catch him when you're _dead?_ You're just going to roll over and let Near win?"

"Just calm the fuck down, okay?" he says through gritted teeth.

I don't know how, but suddenly I'm standing up and nearly in Mello's face. "Don't you fucking tell me to calm down!"

"Matt, I'm warning you—" He's on the brink of exploding, I can tell, but I can't stop.

"You're giving up your lifelong ambition just so you can get yourself killed for no reason! I thought this was fucking _important_ to you—"

"Don't you _get_ it?" he bellows. "This isn't about Near any more! It's Kira, it was always Kira!" His livid face is literally inches from mine; flecks of his spittle fly at me as he rages on. "This is the only way to beat him, and I'm the only one who can do it!"

"Will you stop talking like you're some goddamn martyr! What the hell do you think you're—"

"If you would just shut the fuck up and _listen_—"

He staggers backward, abruptly cut off by a punch to the jaw. It takes me half a second to realize that I'm the one who threw it. I hit him.

I just punched one of the world's most dangerous ex-mobsters in the _face_.

Knuckles stinging and chest heaving, I stare at him, waiting for his fury to break over me like every natural disaster happening all at once. The horrible silence lengthens as we stand suspended in space, my left fist hovering near my chest, Mello's hand at his bruised jaw. His eyes are two chips of blue ice.

I'm expecting him to tackle me to the floor with a murderous howl, or pull a gun on me or something, but he doesn't. He just slowly turns around and starts to walk, zombielike, toward his room. I'm not stupid enough to try to follow him. He slams the door loud enough to rattle the cobwebs from the ceiling, but I don't flinch.

After standing there stupefied for God knows how long, my anger slowly recedes, to be replaced by a cold, creeping dread. There are three things I could do now: retreat to my own room, flee the apartment, or pull on my goggles and curl up in the fetal position. I eventually opt for the last choice.

Sinking into the couch and hugging my knees to my chest, I wonder dully if Mello's going to come back out here and kill me. But really, I know that he won't, no matter how pissed off he is. I'm all he has left.

* * *

At least an hour later, I jolt out of a doze at the sound of Mello's bedroom door creaking open. I hear his soft footsteps approaching the couch. My whole body tenses up when I sense him looming over me, but I keep on staring resolutely at my knees. The dark denim of my ragged jeans is tinted a dirty ocher color by my goggles.

Mello extends his hand into my peripheral vision, and I hold my breath, squeezing my eyes shut. But all he does is grab hold of my goggles and pull them slowly over my head, with surprising gentleness. When they're off, I reluctantly open my eyes and look up at him. He's removed his gloves and his boots, and though he looks stern, at least he doesn't seem to be simmering with suppressed rage.

I swallow the lump of apprehension in my throat and choke out my best attempt at "I'm sorry." Maybe it's my imagination, but I think Mello's eyes soften a little. He tosses my goggles to the coffee table and sits down one cushion over from me, like he did when I first saw him all those weeks ago in New York.

He rubs his face, sighing, and says nothing for at least a minute. Then he mutters, "I guess I shouldn't have yelled at you." Mello would never admit fault, but I can tell he feels the smallest bit responsible for my outburst. "This plan isn't just stupid, you know. I wanted to tell you the reason, before you..." He trails off, shaking his head. "Will you just listen now?" After a moment of hesitation, I give a tiny nod, not trusting my voice, even though my guilt and edginess over the fight are beginning to ebb.

"Okay," Mello says. Our soft breathing punctuates the silence for a while before he goes on. "I was going to tell you... I've realized a possibility that Near didn't see."

I stretch out my cramped limbs, watching him warily. "Really?"

His lip quirks upward almost imperceptibly. "Yeah... Maybe I'm smarter than the little bastard after all."

"What is it?" I can't help but feel a little flare of pride for Mello, despite all my misgivings over what's going on in his head. He's crazy, but there's no doubt he's also astoundingly brilliant.

He begins to explain stiffly. "Halle called me and said that Near's going to force Kira's right-hand man to write the SPK's and NPA's names. I assume the SPK is going to replace the notebook with a fake." I raise my eyebrows, surprised to hear that Near would orchestrate such a bold move, but when I consider it, it makes sense. It would be the only way to catch the guy in the act and obtain hard evidence. "But I realized from what she told me... the notebook that this X-Kira guy is using now could already be a fake."

My eyes widen as his words sink in. "Then that means—"

"Kira knows what Near's plan is," Mello nods grimly. "Really, Near should have seen it—whoever X-Kira is, he's just too obvious. I mean, Halle said that they actually saw him using the notebook and talking to himself in public... I'm sure that he's acting as a decoy. The real notebook is somewhere else, and Kira isn't going to let him use it again until Near does the fake notebook swap. Then, when X-Kira writes their names..." He swipes his hand across his throat in a violent gesture.

I mull over the possibility. It's hard to believe that Near could be guilty of this huge oversight, but I suppose the kid's overconfidence finally got to him. "So... what's kidnapping Takada supposed to accomplish, if that's the case?"

"What, you still don't see it?" He glances archly at me. "Takada seems to be the only way Kira and X-Kira can communicate. When she's out of the picture, it'll force Kira—or X-Kira, or both of them—to make a move. They'll panic when they can't contact each other. Not only that, but they'll have to kill the bitch to stop her from revealing anything, and in order to make sure she dies, X-Kira is going to get the real notebook. Then Near will see where it is."

I give him a hard look. "If the NPA knows your name, so does Kira, and he'll have told Takada and X-Kira," I point out. "If any of them see your face, they can kill you."

He turns his head away from me. "I'll need you to create a diversion, so I can get Takada away from her bodyguards," he says, as if he didn't hear me point out the distinct possibility of his death.

"Mello." I take a breath. "Don't be stupid. It's too fucking dangerous for you to go through with this." I'm glad that he's not looking at me right now, because I think my eyes might be starting to tear up just a little bit. Damn it. I want to reach for the goggles on the coffee table and put them back on, but Mello will probably get pissed off again if I do that. The feeling soon passes, anyway.

"I know," he says quietly. "I know I probably won't make it out alive. That's the point." His words sound clipped, staccato, almost unreal. "But you'll be okay. Nobody knows your name. Barely anyone's seen your face before. Any records of you at Wammy's were destroyed. Kira—and anyone else who has a notebook—can't touch you."

"Hello, aren't you forgetting something?" I scoff. "Takada's goons have guns, you know. My vest has survived a lot of beatings, but I'm pretty sure it isn't bulletproof."

Mello looks back at me, scowling. "You're _not_ going to get shot," he insists. "You'll be able to get away. I'm the one who's doing the actual kidnapping."

Feeling annoyance bubble in my stomach again, I give him a small shove on the shoulder. "If you're so sure you're going to die, why the hell are you doing it? Do you understand what death actually means, for God's sake? And how can you be so damn sure _I'm_ not going to die?"

His eyes glint at me. "If you don't want to go through with it, I'll find someone else to—"

"No, you idiot," I interrupt, before he can finish making his suggestion. "I'm not going to let you do it without me! You think I'd leave you to die after I've helped you this much?" I glare at him. "And who the fuck else would you get to help you pull this off? Lidner's busy playing bodyguard, and even if all the guys in your gang weren't dead, I bet none of them could drive a getaway car as well as I can."

Mello gives a little laugh. "You're right. You're really the only man for the job." He looks appraisingly at me. "Besides, you're the only one who's insane enough to keep on helping me, even when I keep on screwing up."

I cross my arms, torn between amusement and exasperation. I'm the insane one? If I'm insane, Mello's completely psychotic. He ran away nearly halfway across the world from Wammy's, joined the mob, did God-knows-what to rise through the ranks, kidnapped two people in order to get a supernatural killer notebook, and... oh yeah, he blew up a goddamn _building_—while he was still in it. And now he's planning a suicide mission.

But hey, maybe he has a point. It was pretty stupid of me to just drop everything, move to Japan, and rent an apartment with a former mobster who's trying to hunt down a serial killer. Still, doing crazy shit for the sake of my best friend has to be better than just doing crazy shit for the hell of it. Right?

"How could I ever turn you down?" I attempt a grin, but my throat feels tight. Without Mello, life is just dull. Boring, lonely, and safe... and yet, how safe are any of us in a world ruled by Kira? My eyes prickle again with the threat of tears, forcing me to take a deep, calming breath.

His smile has a tinge of sadness. "You've always stuck with me whenever I asked, haven't you..." He shakes his head. "God only knows why you bother. But you won't have to put up with me for much longer, eh?" That's just like Mello, to talk about his own life and death as though they're minor nuisances.

The image of Mello's face warps and blurs behind a layer of sudden tears. Shit, I thought I had gotten control of myself. "Hey. Don't say that," I whisper. I know that if I try to use my voice, it's going to crack. "Do you think I want you to die?"

I can't stand the way crying feels—the back of my throat hurts and my eyes are too hot in their sockets. I close my eyes, shut my mouth tightly, and swallow hard, feeling water clinging to my eyelashes. A single fat tear starts to roll down my cheek and I choke back a sob—_oh, real smooth, Matt_. I want my goggles to shield me from Mello, but they're still lying uselessly on the table.

My eyes snap open when Mello lays a hand on my shoulder. With his other hand, he delicately catches the tear on his fingertip and smears it to the side of my face. "Shhh," he breathes. I look at him in mild alarm, my eyes stinging, but I can't read his expression.

He sits absolutely still for a split second, then leans forward and places his rough, dry lips against mine. I inhale sharply through my nose at the sudden contact, staring into his electric blue eyes. Neither of us moves at all; for an impossibly long moment, I'm completely paralyzed.

I finally come to my senses and scramble backward. "Wh—what the fuck was that for?" I stammer, feeling heat rise quickly to my face. My heart is pounding so hard that my chest hurts, and I wonder if this is what it feels like to be murdered by Kira. No, that's stupid. This isn't a heart attack; it's just shock.

The tip of Mello's tongue pokes out to lick his lips. "Thought it'd make you feel better," he murmurs.

I stare at him, my mouth still slightly open. "That—was my first kiss," I finally say, unable to keep the shakiness out of my voice.

"Oh, come on. You think that counts as a kiss?" He smiles teasingly. "Man, I didn't think you were _that_ much of a virgin."

"Damn it, Mello..." Why the hell is he joking about this? "If I didn't know better, I'd think you were trying to seduce me or some shit to get me to—"

"Shut up," he interrupts, his smile transformed to a slight scowl. "If you didn't like it, just tell me to back off."

It takes a few more seconds to get my vocal cords working a third time, but I can only make indistinct noises. "I—uh..." The truth is, I didn't exactly _hate_ it. Damn, did I really just think that? I swallow and manage to say, "If that was an attempt to—proposition me or something, you've got to admit it was pretty damn lame."

He rolls his eyes. "I'd never try to have sex with you, stupid. I know you're not interested." Come to think of it, I'm sure that if Mello actually wanted to seduce me, he'd have much better methods of doing it, even if he knows I'd never accept his advances.

"Then what, are you... in love with me or something?" My pulse is annoyingly loud in my ears.

"Not exactly," he says with a hint of his trademark smirk. "You're just the only person in the world who really gives a shit about me, you know? I've never let you know how much I appreciate that." Before I can fully process his statement, he grabs the front of my shirt and catches my lips in a much deeper kiss. I forget any further questions as my brain shorts out. In the complete lack of rational instructions from my cerebral cortex, my hands start to reach behind Mello's head and my eyelids fall closed.

When I used to wonder what it would feel like to _really_ kiss somebody (and Mello was right, the peck on the lips a minute ago didn't count), I didn't envision anything like this. The hair I'm hesitantly tangling in my fingers isn't silky, but thick and slightly singed; the skin under my hands isn't smooth, but tough and half scarred. There's no way I could have imagined how warm the mouth on mine would be, or how it would taste faintly of bitter chocolate. I can't say I feel any fireworks or starbursts or stirrings of arousal, either—I just feel an overpowering desire to hold and be held by Mello, to touch his hair and his shoulders and his exquisite, ruined face.

Wait, what the fuck? This is _Mello_, for God's sake—my best friend, my only friend, a wanted criminal who's planning to die in a couple of weeks, and—_oh hell, I don't fucking know anything about kissing!_ At this realization, I immediately wrench myself away from Mello, and only now do I find myself completely unable to look at him. My face is burning, as though in a mockery of his injury, as I try to catch my breath and quell my impulse to run away.

There's dead silence until I hear Mello sit back against the sofa cushions and speak in a placating tone. "Hey." Startled, I glance up at him. "Sorry... I promise I won't do that again."

Through my haze of mortification, I almost find it funny that Mello is apologizing for doing something that could actually be considered _nice_. And here I was expecting him to complain that I taste like an ashtray or something. "I—it's okay," I mumble, raking my fingers sheepishly through my hair. I think about the statement as I utter it, and to my surprise, I find that I'm telling the truth. After all, how could it be harder to forgive him for _this_ than for anything else? "It's just that I, uh... Why—"

"I'm going to die soon," Mello says bluntly. His words send a slow, dreadful shiver down my spine. "Look, I told you, this isn't about sex, or being in love, or any of that bullshit, all right? You're just... a hell of a lot more than a friend to me. You're the only person I've ever cared about that I can actually remember." He looks away while I continue to stare in stunned silence, and the flush creeps even further down my neck.

Mello cares about me that much? Who would've guessed? I thought all he really cared about was being number one, avenging L's death, eliminating his enemies, that kind of shit. He's hardly ever indicated that he gives a flying fuck about me, and now he suddenly does something like this? I swear, he's an enigma. I don't get people in general, but Mello really makes no fucking sense. Maybe the only reason I've managed to stay friends with him for this long is that it isn't necessary for me to understand him; he just pelts along at breakneck speed, and I try to keep up. It's impossible to _not_ want to follow Mello—hell, he's going to lead me to my death, but I still want to stick with him. I have to.

Mello's eyes are bright when he returns his gaze to me—not gleaming with his usual mania, but rather with a subtle warmth that almost makes my chest hurt again. His eyes remind me of the time before Near came to the orphanage—when it was just the two of us, with no one to aggravate Mello's competitive streak. We both knew then that Mello would grow up to take L's place someday, but how could we have known that L wouldn't live forever?

It's both a relief and an embarrassment to break the tense silence with my bumbling ineloquence. "Mello... I—" I look at him helplessly, unable to get any more words past my larynx.

"What, Matt?" A small, easy smile spreads across his face. "You love me, too? You'd die for me? You think I'm a damn good kisser?"

"Hey!" I didn't think it was _possible_ that my face could heat up even more. "Shut up!" Even though none of those statements might actually be false, I still have a right to be indignant. Trust Mello to turn a sentimental moment into an opportunity to be facetious.

Maybe he _planned_ this as a way of getting back at me for punching him. Bastard.

He laughs softly. "So... was I successful in temporarily distracting you?"

My brow furrows. "Sorry, but I have totally _not_ forgotten about your stupid plan." Granted, maybe that wasn't the topmost thing on my mind these last few minutes, but if Mello thinks a bit of snogging is going to let him off easily, he's got another think coming.

"Well, in that case..." He stretches languidly. "We've got lots of work to do, and less than two weeks to do it. I still need to tell you all the details."

I'm completely bewildered at Mello, I'm craving a cigarette, I'm probably mottled pink and maroon like my favorite striped T-shirt, and I'm scared shitless of what's going to happen to us—but the most pressing issue at the moment is that I'm really damn hungry. I clear my throat and stand up. "Okay. Uh, let's get something to eat, all right? Then you can tell me what you need me to do." I glance down at my bruised knuckles. "And... I promise I'll try not to hit you again."

"That sounds like a bullshit promise," Mello observes with a raised eyebrow. I shrug noncommittally in response and lean over to retrieve my goggles, but Mello snatches them up first. Ignoring my puzzled expression, he stands up, reaches behind my head, and pulls the goggles down over my eyes. "Come on," he says, grabbing my hand and starting to pull me away.

_Lots of work to do_... Yeah, I guess there will be plenty of work involved in preparing for our imminent death. Probably, I won't ever be ready to hear about it, so Mello may as well get the full explanation over with now.

I wonder how much additional mood whiplash I'll be able to handle tonight. Dazedly, I allow myself to be dragged into the kitchen, trying very hard to ignore the way my skin is still tingling with the ghostly impressions of Mello's lips and hands.


	5. The Crusade

****

A/N: A thousand thanks to my beta reader Meiyl, and to everyone who has read and followed this story.

_Disclaimer: The story and characters of Death Note were created by Tsugumi Ohba and Takeshi Obata._

* * *

**Epilogue: The Crusade**

* * *

Cold January sunlight pours into the room, illuminating the sparse furnishings in my sleeping area. All around the floor are cardboard boxes with most of my shit in them—clothes, video games, extra cameras and bugs, my stash of cigarettes. There was no need to unpack properly, after all; this apartment is like a cell on death row, as far as I'm concerned.

Mello's plan goes down today. There isn't any point in delaying further; it's now or never. Mello's been ready ever since he steeled himself to carry out this whole thing in the first place, and we finished setting up the infiltration of the delivery company days ago... but I still have some things left to do.

For one thing, I haven't read Mello's note yet, the one he left for me in _Paradise Lost_ and that I stuffed unceremoniously into my vest pocket in November. I won't have time to read it later, so I guess I'll have to bite the bullet and just look at the damn thing now. Gritting my teeth and trying to ignore how fast my pulse is, I pull out the slip of paper from my pocket and unfold it.

I pull off my goggles to peer at the note. The scribbled text is in blue ink that's probably as dark as the day he wrote it, since light has never faded it. I'm barely breathing as I read it. It strikes me that I'm imagining the present-day Mello speaking the words, since I can't remember what fourteen-year-old Mello's voice sounded like any more.

_Matt,_

_You probably know by now that L is dead. I'm leaving Wammy's today for good, and I'm going to leave the country when I get enough money. Don't try to follow me_—_stay here and be safe. I know we're friends, and if things were different, we'd stick together. But where I'm going now, I can't bring anyone else._

_I promise that if I get into too much trouble, I'll call you, but it won't be until after you've graduated. I'll keep an eye on you, okay? So don't do anything stupid while I'm gone. We'll see each other again someday._

—_Mello_

_P.S. You're really damn smart, you know that? If you weren't so lazy, you could be number one, easy as anything. Now that I'm gone, I bet you could beat Near if you wanted. But don't let them make you the next L. The Kira case is between me and Near, got it? Finish out your four years, raise some hell, let the institution find a real job for you when you're eighteen. You deserve it._

_P.P.S. You can have all the chocolate I stashed in the closet._

The paper tears slightly down the middle because of how tightly my fingers are gripping it. I smooth it out, reading and rereading it, until I realize how long I've been standing here when I'm supposed to be making final preparations. With eyes smarting, I refold the note and slip it carefully back into my vest.

* * *

It's almost time to go. I've erased every trace of the surveillance we've done, I've paid our bills (well, most of them, anyway), I've set up safeguards to delete the information on my computers if we don't come back—hell, I've even cleaned the apartment. Seems like a smart thing to do, since we're going to die today, and I don't want the landlord going through all our shit when we're gone.

_Enough with the morbid thoughts, Matt. It's not going to help you do what needs doing._ I sigh and check the smoke bomb for the fourth time. I can feel the gun Mello let me borrow as an uncomfortable weight in my vest. It kind of scares me to be packing heat, since I've never owned a gun before in my life, but I guess it's necessary. How Mello managed to obtain firearms in Japan, I'll never know.

Mello walks out of his bedroom carrying his helmet, looking badass as usual in his black leather. He's also got a gun, but he's dealt with scarier shit than weapons before. I'm the one who's new at this; I'm the one who's more likely to screw up. "You ready?" he asks.

"I've got the gun, the bomb, the car keys, a pack of cigs... yeah, I think that's everything," I try to say nonchalantly.

He puts his helmet on the kitchen counter and walks up to me, close enough to draw attention to the inch of difference in our heights. "Are you scared?"

"Hell, no," I lie. He gives a half-smile, then tilts his head down and pulls me in for a kiss. After a few seconds of dumb surprise, I give in and inexpertly try to kiss him back. After all, you're supposed to give people who are about to die whatever they want, right? I can't say that kissing Mello is an unpleasant way to spend a minute on the last day of my life. It even seems to provide me with a little bit of his fearlessness.

"I thought you said you wouldn't do this again," I remind him distractedly as his mouth migrates away from mine to trail ticklishly along my jaw.

I feel his warm breath on my cheek. "You looked sad just now. What else was I supposed to do?" I guess he knows I wasn't really protesting. "Matt..." His lips brush my ear and I shiver. "Tell me your name," he murmurs. "Please. I want to know your real name."

I don't have to hesitate. I know I'd give up anything for him—why wouldn't I trust him with my name? It occurs to me with a pang that this must be one of the only times in his life Mello's ever asked for something by saying _please_. It'll probably be the last time.

With his golden hair tickling my nose, I turn my head and mumble my given name into his ear. No one's called me by my name in a long time, not since before I went to Wammy's, and it sounds strange to me. I don't even call myself that name inside my own head. When he whispers his name in response, I smile. It's beautiful, a blending of vowels that sounds musical even without being voiced, and I like how it's vaguely similar to my own name.

"Hey... you're named after an archangel, aren't you?" I realize, musing as Mello releases me from his arms. The skin of my neck is chilly without his breath on it. "Mikha'el—Michael. The commander of God's army."

His fingers are now toying with his rosary beads. He raises an eyebrow. "How'd you know that?"

"He was a character in _Paradise Lost_. Don't you remember? You must have read at least some of it."

He shrugs, with a tiny, apologetic smile. "The only thing I remember is that I hated it." Mello was never much for literature, and I can tell he doesn't want to think about that book right now. He falls silent for a while, counting beads, and his voice is low when he speaks again. "They told me my mother was from somewhere in central Europe—maybe a Slavic country—and she was Catholic. I guess she might have named me after an angel... I can barely remember her."

"Was that her rosary?" I had never known.

He nods slowly. "I used to pray with it, you know, when I was a little kid." I do remember watching and listening to him reciting rosaries a long time ago, kneeling by the window of our room at night. "But I've forgotten how. Now I guess it's just a decoration." He gives a dry laugh. "Or an ironic symbol of how much of a sinner I am." He clenches his fist around the slim wooden cross.

"At least you have something left from one of your parents," I tell him.

"I guess so..." He lets go of the rosary and lets it drop against his chest, still looking down at it thoughtfully. "Let's get out of here." Before I know it, Mello's got his helmet again, and I'm locking the door behind us as we leave—a futile gesture, but done simply out of habit. We take the stairs and find ourselves in the dingy garage, standing between my car and his new motorbike. I feel like I've been sleepwalking.

I'm about to open the car door when Mello claps his hand to my shoulder. "Hey." I turn around and look at him patiently until he speaks again. "Want to really know why I kept the rosary?"

It doesn't really matter to me, but I might as well humor him. "Sure."

"You know how people think Kira's some sort of... god of justice?" There's an edge of contempt to his words.

I grimace. Kira—ism is pretty much the one world religion now, with its own prophetess and disciples and preachers... and a murderer worshiped as the divine savior.

"Well, I guess I wear this thing because it reminds me that they're wrong," Mello continues. "Kira isn't God... he's just some bastard who's as much in the dirt as the rest of us." His eyes are flinty, showing a hint of the ruthlessness he's capable of. "He's a fucking hypocrite. And if we can't bring him down, at least we'll give him a damn good run for his money."

I try to swallow the lump in my throat. "Yeah," I croak, unable to say anything else. I feel like a soldier going into battle. There's a reason I never joined the army. Where's that scrap of fearlessness that I just had ten minutes ago?

Mello's left hand is still on my shoulder. "Don't worry," he murmurs.

Suddenly, as if worried he might dematerialize in front of me, I wrap my arms around him and hug him tightly. Then I partially let him go, gripping his shoulders and glaring at him with all the severity I can muster. "If you die and I don't, I swear I'll—"

"Shut up," he interrupts softly, touching a leather-gloved finger to my lips. What was I going to say, anyway? I can't threaten someone whose life is about to end. It's like he doesn't even belong to this world any more.

Mello gives my shoulder a final squeeze, disengages himself from my hands, and retrieves his helmet from where he left it on the seat of the motorcycle. He looks at me levelly, mouth in a grim line, eyes ablaze. "See you on the other side." I nod shortly, reaching up to pull my goggles down onto my face, and get into the car.

I take out a cigarette and light up as I hear Mello revving his bike. When I start the engine and put it in gear, the sound of the rumbling motor kicks my brain into hyperdrive, and I can sense the adrenaline fizzing in my bloodstream. I feel my heart beating behind the note in my vest pocket. It's strange that I feel so alive right when I'm getting ready to die.

I don't know what Mello meant by "the other side," but whether he was talking about the afterlife or the aftermath, I know he's lying—we won't be meeting again after this. Nevertheless, I can't help wanting to believe him; I've always hung onto Mello's every word. _Don't worry_, he said.

_We'll see each other again someday._

* * *

Angels are bright still, though the brightest fell.  
—_Macbeth_, act IV, scene iii

* * *

Well, at least the first part of the plan seems to have been entirely successful—the more bodyguards there are following me, the fewer there'll be going after Mello.

I may be a damn good driver, but I can't get away, even though I've been speeding around and evading them for a good while. It isn't enough. I can't even set off another smoke bomb to get them off my tail; I'm surrounded. They've got me. So it turns out you were wrong, Mello, like I knew you would be.

Damn you, Mello. Damn your determination, your stubbornness, your stupid fucking pride. Damn everything I love about you. Weeks ago, I told you I'd do anything to bring down Kira, and I wondered why I cared so much. Now I know what I really meant was that I'd do anything for your sake—even, God help me, die for you.

You're no angel, Mihael, and God knows we won't see each other in heaven. We aren't fighting Satan and his army, either; we're all human—you, me, Near, L, and especially Kira. This is not a holy war.

Funny how I let you drag me into all of this. I never needed to be the best, the first, the victor, the successor—that was all you, Mello. This was your game of divine justice, or vengeance, or conquest, or whatever it was. All I want is for you to get out of this alive, but you can't even grant me that one wish. I suppose it's fitting that I won't fulfill your wish for me to live, either. We both lose.

As I step out of the car and raise my hands, I almost want to laugh at how many guns the damn bodyguards have got aimed at me. Total overkill. One bullet is going to kill me just as dead as thirteen bullets, or twenty-six. This isn't Grand Theft Auto, and my non-bulletproof vest isn't going to help me out of this one, but I guess I still have to try.

I've got my goggles on; the world doesn't look as frightening when it's all washed with orange. My cigarette helps calm me down while I breathe in the smoke and address the faceless men in black suits. It's almost comforting to know there are only two possible outcomes. Either I sweet-talk enough to stall them, grab my gun, and somehow cheat my way out of death, or... I fail.

The first shot hurts more than anything I've ever felt in my life, which, incidentally, is going to end soon. Each bullet slams into my body with devastating force, bleeding the life out of me until I don't feel any more.

So. This is it.

I don't think either of us could have guessed what death really means, Mello. We won't even find out together. I'm ending my life the same way I started it—alone.

Maybe death means loneliness. Maybe it means nothing.

There aren't any flights of angels to sing us to our rest, but I didn't expect there to be. I never believed in angels.

* * *

**end**

* * *

_Note: In Roman Catholic tradition, the archangel/saint Michael (whose name means "Who is like God?" in Hebrew) is not only the enemy of Satan in battle, but also the one who guides souls to heaven. The name Mail (pronounced MYLE) seems to be a form of the Gaelic name Mael, which means "servant" or "devotee."_


End file.
